The Technicolor marvel of Toshogu Shrine rises in tiers—layer upon layer of ornate structures—a dazzling spectacle of gold leaf, elaborate carvings, and rich vermillion set against the fierce embrace of Nikko’s ancient cedar forest. The crisp mountain air, a byproduct of the shrine’s elevation, only deepens its mystique. While most tourists spill out of buses and shuffle toward the Omotemon—the sacred entrance—I glide past them in an MK charter. My driver pulls up closer than the crowded drop-off point, granting me an effortless passage through the towering gate. Custom dictates a respectful bow before stepping through the Yomeimon, the shrine’s elaborately decorated main entrance, a silent acknowledgment of the spirits enshrined within.
My brother, however, is not fortunate enough to share in this seamless arrival. His morning unfolds as a comedy of errors, relayed to me over the speakerphone of my MK—a modern-day chariot of ease. He recounts meeting a first-time solo traveler from Arkansas on the train, a wide-eyed adventurer eager to escape what he calls “the mundanity of Central Arkansas.” My brother, at the end of his patience, listens as this enthusiastic traveler bumbles through explaining Japan’s labyrinth of logistics.
Their conversation begins with shared travel mishaps, the Arkansan lamenting how he barely navigated the train system—“in Aka-Sack-Ah!” he quips, winking as if the pun is gold. Meanwhile, my brother’s own day derails spectacularly. Eschewing the ease of an MK, he decides to rent a bike, picturing a leisurely morning ride before catching his train to Nikko. What he doesn’t anticipate is every return port being full, leaving him stranded with no way to dock. An hour slips away. He sprints into the station, breathless and cursing—too late, his train is gone. Next train? Sold out. The one after that? A two-hour wait. His only refuge: a crowded café where the only available seating is in the smoking section. As an ex-smoker of five years, this is his personal purgatory, marinating in the scent of regret and secondhand fumes.
Meanwhile, I recline in the plush comfort of my MK, casually unwrapping a Lawson egg salad sandwich (famously praised by Anthony Bourdain) and even manage a short nap under the watchful eye of my ever-professional driver, Toshi.
Hours later, my beleaguered brother finally arrives, and we weave through Toshogu’s labyrinth of opulence: the five-story pagoda, its tiers symbolizing earth, wind, fire (Ai Ai), water, and void; and the intricately carved Three Wise Monkeys, their expressions echoing a silent anthem: "Don't you hear no evil, don't you see no evil, don't you speak no evil"; the sacred Sleeping Cat (Nemuri-neko); and, at last, Tokugawa Ieyasu’s relatively austere yet dignified mausoleum—its simplicity a striking contrast to the shrine’s grandeur. A dragonfly lands on my shoe, and I scoff at the forced symbolism forming in my head. As schoolchildren count each step on their climb to the sky, my brother, Jacob, seems almost reborn, his earlier suffering fading into the shrine’s majesty.
As the day winds down, we venture deeper into Nikko, our MK gliding through mountain roads toward Kegon Falls, where torrents of water plummet 97 meters into the basin below. From there, we take in the tranquil expanse of Lake Chuzenji, its glassy surface reflecting the shifting hues of twilight. The MK offers a front-row seat to this natural spectacle—a stark contrast to the travel nightmare my brother endured just hours earlier.
As we prepare to leave, Jacob nudges me and points out a familiar face—the Arkansas traveler, now thoroughly disheveled and inebriated, stumbling out of a bar, arm-in-arm with an equally intoxicated Australian.
“So, how’d Nikko treat ya?” Jacob asks, smirking, clearly amused by the contrast between his own odyssey and the Arkansan’s altered state.
The Arkansan hiccups, grins, and gestures vaguely toward the shrine. “I made it there… and then I found a bar.”
"Well," I say, "it is the temple of beer, after all. Maybe he caught a spirit?"
Ba-dum-tss.
I nod toward the shrine, recalling that Yebisu Beer—one of Japan’s most famous brews—bears the name of Ebisu, the god of prosperity and fishermen. As one of the Seven Lucky Gods, his offerings of sake and beer barrels stand stacked beyond the gates, a quiet testament to Japan’s deep-rooted connection between the sacred and the spirited.
Somewhere, light jazz drifts through the mountain air, snare brushes whispering like wind through the cedars. The curtain falls.
Gliding away from Nikko, the MK is less transport, more cocoon—proof that, with the right planning (or the right service), the journey can rival the destination.
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